Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

He selected Reba M cEntire and put her on... loud.

I said, “Why don’t you just make yourself right at home, how would that be. Don’t stand on ceremony.”

Reba was bemoaning yet another done-her-wrong-man number.

Dex was wearing a light cotton suit. He flicked his hand against the jacket, said, “Sh-ee-it... I should be wearing Levi’s... wow that bitch doesn’t half whine eh? Now me, I like a blast of Heavy Metal. Give the old Metal to that dog eh...”

This was no surprise.

We finished the bottle and he told me he was a businessman. All of it seemed shady and risky. I don’t imagine he’d have wanted it otherwise. That’s how I got to meet him. We didn’t ever become friends as Dex was incapable of that, but we saw each other a lot.

He fascinated me... and I think I amused him. Not from my wit but from his ribbing me. He liked to see how far he could push it and he was prepared to go as far as he could. I think Dex rose in the morning, opened his wardrobe and took whatever personality was current. Sometimes it fitted. Other times he was just dangerous.

He spent a lot of time at my place. I was never surprised to find him there, day or night. A Dobermann might have been better security but I’m willing to argue the point. A late Sunday morning, I was bleary eyed from rowdy crowds at the club. Feeling touchy as I’d had to hit a yuppie. Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes a slap is the only reply but I didn’t ever get to feel good about it. I was spooning instant into a mug and contemplating a second spoon to get in gear. Cold metal pushed hard below my left ear and Dex whispered, “Freeze mother-fuckhah.”

I did.

Then he withdrew the pistol, laughed and said, “Had you going Nicky... you were shitting bricks... go on. Admit it.”

My hands were trembling and it was a few moments before I could lay down the cup and spoon. I turned slowly. He was holding an automatic pistol and pointing it at me. He said, “Cat got your tongue?”

“Put down the gun, Dex, OK”

“But you haven’t seen the best bit...” and he squeezed the trigger.

Banging on empty, six times and then it jammed. I swung with my left. The blow knocked him across the kitchen. The gun clattered across the floor and wedged beneath the fridge. I stood over him and a look, momentarily, of fear with rage filled his face... then it fled. For an instant the beast was exposed. I think I glimpsed the soul of hell itself.

My old man used to give me ferocious beatings. That’s what I had intended for Dex but that look took it all away. Instead I said, “If you ever point a gun at me again, be sure of two things. One, that the gun is loaded, two... that you fully plan to use it.”

He said, “Does this mean I have to make my own coffee?”

I left the pistol lying beneath the fridge. On ice so to speak.

A week later I was working when a cab pulled up outside the club. Three black women piled out and they were in hyper humour. Giggling, jostling, giving high fives. They were dressed for action with short skirts, sheer stockings and to me they appeared a jumble of desire. My mouth went dry.

All had pretty faces but the tallest of them was striking. As they approached I said, “It’s the Three Degrees.”

The tall one answered, “A white boy with a mouth. Yo’ white boy, y’all gonna let us in yo’ club?”

As I swept them in, she added in a posh voice, “Do pray tell us white boy, where you got your suit?”

I touched her arm lightly and said, “I’ll tell you if we can come to a small arrangement.”

Her accent reverted to sass.

“Wot arrangement that be white boy, wot can y’all do for little ol’ Lisa. How that be... huh...”

“How it would be Lisa is, if you don’t call me white boy, I won’t call you nigger... how would that suit y’all ?”

It seemed as if she might lash out but her eyes changed to devilry instead. Skipped inside. I’ve heard all that shit about a touch being electric. Hell, I’ve got Ann Murray belting out, “Touch me and I’m weak.”

I believed none of it. What I learnt early was if you touch the wrong person, be prepared to lose the hand from the elbow. I lived on that preparation as second nature. Yet my fingers tingled where they’d held her arm. I shrugged and thought, “Time I got laid is all.”

Midway throughout the evening, one of the staff brought me a glass of Guinness and said a customer had sent it with a message,

“’Cos you like a touch of black.”

I got involved in a fracas at closing so I didn’t see the woman leave. You’ll have noticed my use of fracas there. The study wasn’t entirely wasted and it gives a hint of class to a punch up. When I’d changed, I got in my van and was revving the engine, just to feel the power. A tap at the window and there she was.

“What’s a girl got to do for a lift around here?”

I thought she could do with coming down a notch but said wittily, “Climb in.”

As she did, her skirt hiked up to her hips and I felt the stirrings. She smiled and said, “Gun it Bubba.”

I thought of Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road”:

The door is open

but the Ride

it ain’t free

“Where to?” I asked.

“High Street Kensington. Y’all want to help me lick some fish and chips?”

She can’t have been more than twenty-five yet her eyes had the light of an old soul. Not a particularly compassionate one. But they drew me. Her body was lush. I dunno any other word. It made me think of words like ripe, but mainly ravishment. As the engine kicked into gear, so did the sound system. Merle Haggard and his lonesome blues.

She lit a joint, held it deep and exclaimed, “Shit-kicker, music... the ol‘ Red Rock Call to Arms... Where’s the white folk at... yahoo... let’s go lynch us a darkie.”

The gears ground in time to my teeth.

As we turned into High Street Ken, she said, “Ain’t ya got no respect?”

That was it. I jammed on the brakes.

“Respect... you friggin talk about that and you smoke dope in my van without so much as a by-your-leave. You have some motor mouth lady.”

She laughed.

“Whoa John-boy. I was meaning the music... don’t you have any Aretha?”

God forgive me, I said, “Aretha Franklin.”

“Oh no, Aretha O’Shea... get your head off yo’ dick boy... there’s a chip shop... my treat.”

She jumped out and ran off. I turned off Merle and as if on cue, a cop appeared. I saw the panda car in my rear-view mirror. One got out and sauntered towards me, adjusting his cap. No doubt about it, the cops see too many cop shows. I let him do his finger number for me to roll down the window. What the hell I thought, it’s his script.

“Would you like to alight from the vehicle, Sir.”

Then we did the dance. Where had I come from, was the van licensed, insured, dry cleaned? All the rigmarole of polite intimidation.

We both knew our roles. I was nearly forty years old then and like the cliché goes, he looked about seventeen. A spiteful nasty piece of work. Throw in the touch of power and you’ve got serious damage.

We’d come to the precipice part. Where he asks me to thin out my pockets and lets my property slip to the ground. I was just beginning to lose my place in the play when Lisa appeared. Her accent would have equalled Lady Di’s.

“What on earth is going on here officer? What’s your duty number? Does Chief Inspector Falls know you’re harassing my removal firm?”

To me she said, “Walter, get the mobile and I’ll phone the Chief Inspector at home, we’ll get to the bottom of this immediately.”

The old scalded-cat effect. Boy did the copper pull back, even removed his cap. I knew then why they sometimes call apologies “profuse”. He was back in the panda and outa there in jig time. I don’t even think he’d had time to notice that Lisa was black. She handed me a bundle of chips and vinegar. The smell you feel your childhood should have been.